


Can't Hold a Candle to This

by erisgregory



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Fluff, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-12
Updated: 2016-09-12
Packaged: 2018-08-14 16:24:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8020813
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erisgregory/pseuds/erisgregory
Summary: Sherlock imagines how their first kiss might go, but he misses the mark entirely.





	Can't Hold a Candle to This

It doesn’t happen at all the way Sherlock imagined it might. Before John moved back, Sherlock imagined it many different ways, none of them at all possible. They might have been fantasies if Sherlock admitted he indulged in such things, but either way they didn’t matter and none of them could come close to reality. 

After John moves back, Sherlock imagines three distinct possibilities, if and when John were amenable to such things. John seems to be content with the status quo, but if that ever changed, Sherlock has prepared himself for the three most probable directions it might take.

The first is after a chase, high on adrenaline, leaning back against some cold wall, breathless, laughing, eyes meeting across a small distance. The laughter dies off and John looks at him and for the first time he sees it, or he lets himself see it, whichever may be the case. He understands that Sherlock wants this and he admits to himself that he wants it too. They move toward each other slowly, pulled against each other by the gravity that’s held them in orbit for so long. It’s fast and there’s too much teeth, and Sherlock has no way of knowing how to kiss John, but he’s read some things and watched some things and studied John as best he can outside of practical experimentation and he does his best to gauge John’s every reaction. It’s hot and fast and just a little bit dangerous there on the street with god knows who looking on, but they don’t care, and it’s so very good.

The second he blames entirely on John and his inability to stop saving Sherlock no matter the cost. He’s saved him again, from the latest whatever that’s been thrown at them and he looks so good standing there. He pulls Sherlock up and smiles so softly, god this one is almost too disgusting to be enjoyable, but it sits there in the secret room in his mind that Sherlock keeps it in and it works so well that Sherlock can’t deny it. John asks him if he’s okay, if he’s hurt. He’s checking Sherlock over as though he can’t trust Sherlock to tell the truth and then his hands are on Sherlock’s face and his eyes are too bright, too full of everything they almost missed because Sherlock is too reckless and was almost dead, and then they’re kissing, soft and heated and it’s like falling all over again. And it should be ridiculous. Sherlock isn’t some damsel in distress. But he can imagine it so clearly he stops fighting it and just enjoys peeking at it from time to time, alone where no one could guess, and yes, John makes quite the dashing hero, though Sherlock would never say so.

Finally, the most likely version. Incidentally the most practical, as well. John and Sherlock are adults after all. They need to talk about these things. Sherlock knows this, despite the fact that he abhors sentiment and John avoids talking about his feelings as hard as Sherlock does. This is different though, isn’t it. They agree to a night in. There’s curry and John pours them both a stiff drink, the fire warming them as they broach the subject. It’s awkward at first, but they don’t need many words. John stands first and reaches his hand out for Sherlock before pulling him upstairs and pushing him into bed. The kisses are languid, heady. They fall asleep before it goes any further, but they lay tangled together breathing each other in until the afternoon sun creeps across the bed.

Fantasies really are never as good as reality, Sherlock knows, but there’s nothing in the world that could have prepared him for the way it really happened.

John was making tea behind him. He was only dimly aware of this fact because John had taken to complaining under his breath about the current state of the kitchen, something Sherlock did not care to be blamed for considering he was deep into his analysis of computer keyboards and the different types of wear their keys displayed regarding the types of people using them. He couldn’t be bothered to worry about dirty tea cups or discarded takeout boxes when John was just as capable of cleaning up as he was.

John sighed heavily before setting Sherlock’s mug of tea down beside him with a heavy clunk. “I don’t think you listen to a word I say,” John mused, but he didn’t walk away and flop into his chair as he normally did. He stayed there, almost leaning over Sherlock to read his notes. 

Sherlock didn’t move. John was close enough that Sherlock could smell his aftershave, just the lingering int of it so late in the afternoon now, and could feel the press of his arm against Sherlock’s where it rested, warm and comforting in a way Sherlock rarely got to indulge in. He didn’t answer and John huffed a little laugh.

When Sherlock didn’t respond, John did the most surprising thing. He let his hand lay over Sherlock’s arm, let it run up to Sherlock’s shoulder where he gripped lightly, lingering a touch longer than could be expected. 

“You’re driving me crazy.” John whispered, then he let go. He turned. He was going to walk away. 

Sherlock couldn’t see his face when he turned, couldn’t tell if this was it, if this was the declaration he’d been waiting for or if John was just being honest, driven to madness by Sherlock’s absentminded messiness.

He reached for John even as his mind shot through varying responses to such a situation, none of them seemed satisfactory. All he could really do was stop John from walking away, which he did by grabbing his elbow. Clumsy. Inelegant. He tugged John around to face him.

“Say that again.” Sherlock’s voice was almost too quiet and he felt an unwelcome rush of embarrassment. What if he was wrong?

John, thank the gods, just smiled indulgently at him. He should hate that smile. He should feel inferior in the face of it, but all he could feel was impossible warmth creeping through his veins as John stepped closer.

“I said, you’re driving me crazy.” John quirked an eyebrow at him and bent to kiss him before his thoughts could even catch up.

It was just a brush of lips before John was pulling away. His face was suddenly too serious and Sherlock was worried he’d somehow managed to bollocks it all before it even started, but John licked his lips and spoke, his voice low and gravelly, tingling over Sherlock’s skin.

“If you don’t want this--” he began, but Sherlock tightened his grip on John’s arm.

He had to swallow against a rush of emotion, of hormones, but it felt like so much honest affection he couldn't be bothered to name the different chemicals racing through his brain. “I want this.” he admitted softly before pulling John against him again, this time opening his mouth in soft invitation for more.

This kiss was like breathing. It wasn’t too fast or too slow, but just right, with stops and starts and both of them checking in with the other. Sherlock turned fully so that John stood between his knees. Their hands moved over and over, never content to rest in one place. When John cradled his face, Sherlock felt he might just bust open. It was a lot. Much more than he thought it would be. It was one thing to care for John from afar, to ache for him or pine for him, to fantasize or imagine him, but quite another entirely to have him pressed so close and so real. To be in the same space as Sherlock at the same moment in time sharing this incredible thing that Sherlock had begun to accept would never see the light of day.

Eventually the careful kisses turned messy, sloppy, needy. Sherlock found he was standing without remembering the action. He’d backed John against the table, holding him there as though afraid he might still change his mind and leave. Sherlock eased up on him a bit, which had John pulling him back against him hard. “You’re not going to break me,” John whispered against his mouth.

Probably not, though Sherlock was hardly used to his mind being so thoroughly blank. He wanted to calculate and to estimate and to deduce every action and reaction, but instead his body was tripping several steps ahead of him, kissing John again, pressing him back, grabbing fistfuls of the back of his jumper. 

When they both finally came up to breathe, John kept his forehead against Sherlock’s, sharing breath and warmth as they panted against each other, his hands running carefully up and down Sherlock’s arms as if trying to calm him or soothe him in some way.

“It’s okay,” John whispered.

“I know. I’m okay.” Sherlock told him, though to be fair his voice hardly made his words convincing.

“Good. That’s good.” John wrapped his arms around Sherlock and squeezed before stepping back.

“I think our tea is cold. Should I make some more?” John offered.

“I think you should take me to bed.” Sherlock told him plainly.

“Oh. Well, then. We should do that, then.” John stammered. Sherlock was pleased to see he had a splotch of red high on each cheek as he reached for Sherlock.

They were quiet as they made their way up to John’s room and Sherlock found himself just a little bit nervous, despite his earlier bravado. John seemed to sense this though, because as he crowded Sherlock up against the door of his room he leaned up and spoke right in Sherlock’s ear.

“There’s no reason to rush, we have all the time in the world.”

“We do, don’t we.” Sherlock said, realizing what that meant for them. This wasn’t a fling, a one off. This was them. This was everything.

John nodded and then kissed him softly and slowly, chasing all of Sherlock’s nerves away.

The next day, Sherlock woke to John muttering in his sleep and rolling over. He was saying something about dirty dishes and Sherlock couldn’t help but laugh. It shouldn’t be sexy at all, it was hardly romantic, but it was perfect to him. John was perfect and reality, as complicated as it might be, was definitely better than anything he could have imagined.


End file.
